


A Fabric of Marvels

by Zahri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Parental Death, Reminiscence and Nostalgia, Wakes & Funerals, Written Pre-Half Blood Prince, mothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-18
Updated: 2004-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zahri/pseuds/Zahri
Summary: A woman can be many things in a person's life, including a mother. As the shadow of war darkens the lives of these six adolescents, a woman stands out for each, one who has had a profound affect on their life.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. Ginny: Folded Down to a Little Space

**Author's Note:**

> This is an imported work, written back in 2004, back when we knew not everyone would make it out, but we didn't know who it would be.

She lies there in state, on the flowered bier. Unmarked, except for a diagonal slash along her right cheekbone, she appears to be sleeping. Only the unnatural stillness of her body belies the fact that my mother's spirit no longer inhabits her body.

She looks so small, like this. The fiery sabre-tooth, who we believed to be twice as tall as Bill, lies still, a husk. With all her energy drained, I realise that I am now taller than her. Mum, who my brothers and I had never seen in a state of inactivity, will never hug me again, never cook dinner and chase us out of the kitchen again, never just be there when I need her, as she is gone.

My hand is tightly gripped around something. I look down to see my fingers tightly clutched around Harry's, a claw grip in which my muscles have frozen. Noticing my gaze, he places his other hand upon mine, rubbing it steadily until my muscles loosen. He gently squeezes my hand, to reassure me, so I flash him a grateful smile of thanks, and then return my attention to the front. Noticing his attire, I think it's sweet of him to wear his Weasley jumper to the funeral. Bright colours make this funeral far less dreary and depressing, even though black is the traditional hue of mourning clothes. Mum would have liked the colour.

Someone is speaking. My mind had previously blocked out all the sounds of their speech, and I wish it would again. The person speaking obviously didn't know Mum, as he is talking about a quite different person. No one who knew her would ever use the word ‘mild' to describe her, unless there was a negative somewhere in the sentence. I don't want their ramblings about this other person, who also happens to be called Molly, to affect my memories of her, so I focus my attention on them. On what my mother has done and shown to me that made her my Mum.

I focus on her cooking, often simple, but always tasty and provided in large quantities. Mum was always ready to feed anyone who came in the back door. Food symbolised love to her, and she lavished it upon us and upon all of those around her. My earliest memories of her were of being sat on the kitchen bench, with a biscuit in one hand and a piece of carrot in the other, watching her bustle around the kitchen. The kitchen always, irrevocably, belonged to Mum. All the rest of us could enter it, but it was her domain, and only those approved by her could help with the craft she concocted there, a magic in its own right.

The memory of cooking with Mum is inextricably linked to the First of September, 1991. The day I first saw Harry. When we got home from Kings Cross station, Mum and I made chocolate biscuits in the kitchen, whilst I talked obsessively about Harry. When the biscuits were finished, Mum let me have the first ones off the tray. They burnt my fingers and mouth, but they tasted so sweet and delicious. Thinking about them, or about Harry, causes the flavours to return unbidden to my tastebuds.

The flavour and the memory of Mum just being, well, Mum, threaten to overcome my barriers. I did not cry when she died, and up until now, I have stubbornly refused to shed tears. There is too much emotion tied up in this for me to cry, as I feel that if I begin, I'll never stop.

Harry, as if he senses my emotions, slips an arm behind me, hugging me close. He doesn't say anything, but just his presence and proximity comforts me. I turn my head, so that I'm looking at him, and curl up, leaning my head upon his chest. His other arm comes around to encircle me, so that I am protected from all outside influences. These feelings of protection, comfort, and safety unblock my clog of emotions, until tears begin to intermingle upon my cheeks and bead on Harry's clothes. Harry just whispers things in my ear and rubs my back.

Lost in our own little world, I wonder if Mum would approve of what is happening, when, whilst shifting my head, rough wool fibres rub against my cheek. She did.


	2. Harry: Mother Who Gave Me Life

I'm sitting here at a funeral. It's the first one I've ever been to. Funny, that, you'd think I would have been to more, what with my mother and father, Cedric, and Sirius. Perhaps even the funerals of others whom Lord Voldemort has killed since his resurrection. But no, Molly Weasley has the dubious honour of my attendance at her funeral as my first experience. I think it is Ginny's first funeral as well. She's holding my hand rather tightly, and I let her. If this is a little reassurance that she needs, she's welcome to it.

I wonder if my parents' funeral was like this, with the deceased laid out on a bier, surrounded by flowers. There are lots of lilies around Molly; the traditional white ones, the oranges, pinks and purples, both open and tightly curled, and even a few yellow ones scattered throughout. My mother was named after them. Why are lilies considered the flower of death? I don't want to think of my mother as a white lily. I'd rather think of her as one of those orangey ones, with the plum stripes on the white underside, and a judicious sprinkle of brown freckles. Bright and passionate, vibrant and cheerful. Caring towards those who suffered and were oppressed, open about her beliefs and values, and quite ready to defend them from anyone who contravened their elements. I think I understand why my father loved her.

Lily was the woman who had the most profound influence on my life, yet I barely remember her. Just the Dementor-induced memory of her futile plead with Voldemort, the photos Hagrid gave me, Snape's memory, and the green light, which is also the colour of our eyes, are all I have to remember her by. Her eyes are the only physical feature or object she gave to me. Everything else is my fathers: his cloak; the map he helped make; his appearance; his Quidditch prowess. Yet, my mother left me the most important thing: the protection of her blood, the haven which has protected and sheltered me ever since. The gifts which my mother gave me are intangible; those of my father are physical, rather like the people those who knew my parents purport Lily and James to be.

Speaking of physicality, Ginny's concrete cold grip is cutting off the circulation to my fingers. I place my other hand on top of hers, to warm it up, and then rub her hand until her grasp loosens. I then give it a quick squeeze to remind her not to inadvertently, or on purpose, halt my blood circulation again, and she grins back at me.

Did Lily know of the protection she was giving me? Did she realise that her sacrifice would help to save my life, to gift me with powers, to give me a future? My mother is the unsung hero of the wizarding world. Without her gift to me, would I have died? Would Neville have then become the child of the prophecy? Would he now carry the burden I must bear?

Ginny shifts beside me, obviously made uncomfortable by the ridiculous speech being made. The person talking is some idiotic sycophant of Fudge's, a Ministry worker who, quite obviously, never spent a day of his life near Molly Weasley. I think he's reading from a standard speech for these occasions, with the names and numbers changed in a pathetic attempt to make it sound supposedly relevant. I hope no imbecile such as this spoke at my parents' funeral. Lupin should have spoken. I'll have to ask him later on.

I can sense Ginny's distress growing. We both have no mothers now. Our cases, however, are wildly different. Ginny knows and remembers Molly, while I have only the stories of others as a testament to my mother's personality. I gently hug Ginny to me, hoping that she'll understand that, although I don't know what it's like to lose a mother whom you know, I've lost Sirius, and I'm ready to just be there for her, like she was for me last year. Her hair doesn't seem as bright in the dim light. It looks more… auburn, like my mother's used to look. It contrasts sharply against the green of my Weasley jumper, which I wear as a tribute to Molly. Hermione got one this past Christmas as well. Hers was a sapphire blue, reminiscent of her dress robes from fourth year.

Ginny curls up next to me, leaning against my chest. I wrap my other arm around her, so I can hold her close to me. As she begins to cry, something which she hasn't done before, I try to avoid the awkwardness I displayed when it was Cho sobbing. I rub her back and murmur in her ear, about how it's all right, that I'm here for her, and other trite nonsense which I doubt she understands.

As I sit here, holding this passionate girl, so repulsed by injustices and affected by her mother's death, I wonder at the woman she may become, if we survive.


	3. Luna: Your Voice Calling Me In

The room is full of people. Many of them I know, many of them I don't. A rather large proportion of them have bright red hair. I wonder whether if you discount the number of Weasleys in the room, the percentage of red hair among the remainder would be normal. Personally, I believe it would be higher than the average, as red-heads may seek each other out, especially so they can be in an environment where the stereotypes associated with red hair aren't applied, as the majority possess the hair colour, but not all the features of the stereotype.

Mrs Weasley is dead. Losing a parent is always hard. My mother died in an accident, during an experiment she was conducting. I remember her funeral clearly. It was a lot smaller than this one, but there were still a lot of Weasleys there, their hair a stark contrast to the black, as the family does live so near by. The families weren't close, but I suppose that, as neighbours, Mr and Mrs Weasley thought it right to attend. Mum and Mrs Weasley used to chat when they saw each other, whilst shopping.

My Mum was amazing. She instilled and fostered in me my love of learning, and always tried to follow where my mind went, if she could. She once told me that I thought sideways, but that "the best ideas and inventions all stemmed from people who thought aslant from the societal perception of true." I think it's a good description of how my mind works. When I find people who understand how I jump from one concept to the next, and that the randomness I employ are just variations I use to express how I feel, it's wonderful.

Mum loved to invent and create. The new object or idea that was forming under her skill and determination was always fascinating to view. They made sense to me and stretched my mind, getting me to contemplate what might unsettle or overbalance the sometimes fragile cooperation of all aspects of the creation.

There are people speaking, but I'm not interested in what they are saying. Instead, I'm more captivated by watching the other guests and their reactions. How they all relate to each other and outwardly deal with the problems they now face through the changes wrought by what has occurred. The way some people are reaching out for the comfort another can provide, whilst others are withdrawing into themselves and presenting a blank, bleak, uncaring face to the world, while they deal with their problems, which are as painful as scalding knifes stabbing their bodies.

Neville is sitting next to me, watching me follow the behaviour of those nearby. He's hesitant and shy, afraid of rebuttal, but he craves comfort. He tentatively moves closer to me, as if I can provide some of the reassurance he so desperately desires. I don't acknowledge the movement, so that he will still feel safe and can absorb the feeling of being close to another person. He doesn't see it as a rebuttal, but unconsciously considers it to be an acceptance.

I don't worry about the fact I'll never see Mum again. I can look at photos and memories of her, which are not as good as the real thing, but still worthwhile. I can go back to the Department of Mysteries and stand by the veil to listen to my mother talking to me. She calls to me through the veil to find out how I am, and if I listen hard enough, I can hear and understand her messages. She wants me to come and join her on the other side. I'd love to go, but I've still got so many things to learn about on this side, and Dad would miss me if I left. He wouldn't have any company on his tracking trips. One day in the future, though, I'll join my mother, and I can tell her about all the amazing and wonderful things I've learnt here. I can then start to explore the things behind the veil which can't be discovered whilst you're still on this side. It'll be great fun, and I'll still be able to whisper back to those who remain behind. I'll stay for now, but one day, I'll go home.


	4. Neville: I Closed the Ward Door

I don't know why I was invited to the funeral. Yes, I'm in Gryffindor, and yes, I'm in the same dormitory as Ron. Yes, I once took Ginny to the Yule Ball, and yes, I was a member of the DA. But still, why am I here? I've never really met Mrs Weasley. Sure, I've seen her at King's Cross Station and at Diagon Alley, but sightings aren't a real basis for a friendship, or for detailed knowledge of her as a person.

Maybe it's because of the Ministry battle. Luna's here as well, but then, she grew up close by to the Weasleys. Seamus and Dean aren't here, nor are the girls in Ginny's dormitory. Colin's here, though, and Lee Jordan, and the rest of the old Quidditch team. Ginny has always seemed to have a soft spot for Colin after their abysmal first year, and Lee's a close friend of the twins. Angelina, Alicia and Katie have all, at one time or another, gone out with one of the twins, and Oliver is, well, Oliver. The Weasley twins have claimed that he was such an important part of their lives, his presence was necessary, so he is also here, missing the start of Quidditch training for the twins' sakes.

Sometimes, I wonder why Mum didn't die. It might have been easier on all of us if they'd both just died that day. At least, then, I'd have an honourable reason for why I live with my Grandmother. Dead parents are not an unusual phenomenon in my generation. All adult wizards and witches know someone, and many have family members, who died in the war. Parents who were tortured to insanity and don't recognise you are different. They're still alive, and mine are the only ones who are currently in that position.

People who've been damaged like my parents usually die quickly. Fourteen years is an apparent record for survival. So, most kids my age do not know that people can be tortured to insanity and even less know that they can survive it. Most of my friends don't know about my parents or their condition – I prefer it that way. I don't want people to pity me because of them. Too many of my relatives already do that. When Harry, Ron and Hermione and Ginny turned up at St Mungo's last year, I was afraid that they would pity me, but they don't seem to. They respect my privacy and never mention it, except for coming to my defence if Malfoy teases me about it.

Mum is saner than Dad, I think. Dad doesn't move much, but mostly just stares at the ceiling. Mum doesn't talk, but she can move around, and she responds to the presence of other people. I'm the only person she gives things to, however. She only gives me gum wrappers, lots and lots of them. Despite what Gran tells me, I've never thrown any of them out. I have them all, safe in a locked box, where Gran won't find and destroy them, because the sight of each one tells me that although Mum cannot recognise me, she is still my mother, and she is still giving them to me. Why else does she not give them to any other person?

They tell me that Mum hid me from the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr. in a cupboard. One doctor once told me, before Gran took him aside and ‘spoke' to him, that Mum had cast a spell on me to dampen my unconscious access to my magic. It had probably been done so that I wouldn't give myself away to the Lestranges involuntarily, and that no one had been able to lift the spell since, as they didn't quite understand how it worked. All the other doctors rebutted the claim, telling me that he didn't know what he was talking about, and, at the time, I believed them. But in fifth year, when I started to consciously look for, and draw upon, my magic, to help me get through the exams, performing magic began to come more easily to me. I found it easier to remember the spells that I had learnt or revised, when I had been concentrating on my magic. Now, I think that the doctor may have been right.

Just like Harry's mother saved his life, my mother saved mine. She did something that people don't quite fully understand, to keep me safe.

I can see Ginny snuggled up in Harry's arms, directly in front of me. Hermione, sitting to one side of me, has Ron's arm around her. Luna's on my other side, with jewel-bright eyes, carefully watching the proceedings around us. As the two girls who know about my family seem to be otherwise occupied, I focus on Luna, shuffling closer to her. She lost her mother in an accident, as well. If I explain, maybe she won't laugh. Maybe, she'll understand.


	5. Hermione: Forgive Me the Wisdom

Molly Weasley looks so old and still, lying at the front of the room. I already miss her. She always had a smile and a few good words for me whenever I saw her. As an only child, I'd be lost without my mother, yet the remainder of the Weasley family are drawing together, into a cohesive unit, to get things organised and done.

I remember the first time I came to Hogwarts and properly entered the magical world. Diagon Alley was an eye-opener certainly, but it didn't inundate me with magic and a feeling of ‘different' like Hogwarts did. Hopping out of those boats, and trudging along the dank, mossy passageway until we reached the grass and front stairs, and entering the oak front door, stained with age, to see the light of the Entrance Hall was a journey. In the light stood Professor McGonagall. She looked strict, stern, and like one of my favourite teachers in primary school: the one who everyone seemed to dislike, but who loved to teach and feed eager young minds. I liked her immediately, and even more when I discovered that she taught Transfiguration, the subject I was most interested in.

As my Head of House and the teacher I went to with problems, Professor McGonagall has almost become a surrogate parent to me. At the end of first year, I went to see her, to apologise for lying in the girl's bathroom about the troll. She just looked at me, with an undecipherable look in her eye and said, "You'll do." In second year, she was sitting in the Infirmary, beside my bed, as I woke up. I later found out that she had rushed from the kitchens, where she had been arranging the feast, just so Colin and I could see her when we were awakened. By third year, she had firmly cemented her status as the teacher which was most important to me.

I went to talk to her a lot in third year. I was a confused girl, just barely an adolescent, who was trying to deal with two troublesome friends, a Time-Turner, and the drastic changes of my body. Having to deal with days that could be anywhere up to 32 hours long confused my body, which, when it was already altering because of the hormones that were flooding through it, created one extremely tired, emotional teenager, with fairly major mood swings.

Professor McGonagall was the only person I could talk to about these things. Harry and Hagrid, while wonderful in their own rights, were males. For a large portion of the year, I was in the middle of pitched warfare with Ron over Crookshanks. I was certainly not close enough to Lavender and Parvati that I could discuss such issues with them, and they, of course, weren't allowed to know about the Time-Turner. As for Ginny – well, she was a friend, and becoming quite a good one, but Ginny's still younger, and wasn't going through the same problems as I was. Plus, there was the Time-Turner problem again. So, since the professor knew about all the issues, I often found myself perched on a chair in her office, with a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other, asking why boys had to be such prats and so blind to what was going on all around them.

I didn't see her so often in fourth or fifth year, but I still found my way to her office at that time of the month when I needed someone to rant to. Well, at least, until Umbridge made that idiotic decree which stopped teachers from talking to students outside of necessary, school-related interaction. Cups of tea and chats in Professor McGonagall's office could hardly be classified as ‘necessary', especially since only a relatively small percentage of Gryffindor students ever took the opportunity or even knew of its availability. 

In sixth year, I once again ventured into her office. Cautiously, at first, as she was always so busy, having taken on a higher proportion of the day-to-day running of the school than in previous years. She did this to provide Headmaster Dumbledore with more time to spare for the war and for the more important decisions in running the school. She always set aside the majority of what she was doing and looked up, ready to listen and to debate with me. After she made a casual comment that she considered my visits to be well-deserved breaks, I came less hesitantly, but still not too often, so that I was not a burden.

Ron puts an arm around me. He's been gazing at me, for the entirety of this time, I notice. A row in front of me, Harry and Ginny are curled up together. Neville is sitting between Luna and me, and has edged progressively closer to Luna, since we all sat down. Ron looks like a forlorn puppy, though I doubt he realises that. No one seems to have objected to the other four, so I shift a little and glance at Ron. I lean against him, putting my head on his shoulder. I see Professor McGonagall glance across at the six of us, from her seat halfway across the room, and smile. We all need what little comfort we can seize right now. Darker days are coming.


	6. Ron: Darkness Falls on My Father’s House

Mum is dead. She's gone. That's what this whole idiotic thing is about. They all keep telling me it's so that we can remember and honour what Mum did in her life, but I think that's a load of tripe. It's just reminding everyone how she died, and that she should still be alive, sitting with us. Seeing her up there, with all those flowers, is wrong. Yes, she's dead. She was hit with the Killing Curse whilst out on Order work. They won't tell Ginny or me any more than that, as her work was, apparently, strictly top secret. I don't want to be reminded of the fact that she's dead, by her dead eyes, by her stiff body. They are an accusation to me, that I am still alive.

Fine, I know I'm being stupid. Mum used to yell at me, to tell me to stop. She can't do that any more, though. Hermione scolds me when I'm at school. It's sort of like having a secondary mother who's around when Mum's not. She isn't as strict as she used to be, though. She's definitely a lot less rule-bound than when we were first years.

We're growing up. We're all growing up. Mum won't age any more now, though. She won't see us get older, see Ginny and me finish school, see any of us get married. If any of us get married. The seven of us are doing a bloody good job of avoiding it at the moment. I think Bill's the only one going out with anyone currently. I think the war is helping to prevent any of us from forming long-term relationships. I'm not sure whether I think that's a good thing or not. I wouldn't want to have kids, what with all the danger, and I'd want to know I could trust the other person, but it'd be good to know that there is someone else out there for me.

Hermione's staring into mid-air, like she does when she's thinking deeply about something. Harry and I have learnt not to disturb her when she's doing it. She doesn't like being jolted out of her train of thought and will scold whoever disrupted her. I wonder what's she's thinking about?

There are lots of people here at the funeral. Most of the Order is here, not pretending that they didn't know Mum and the rest of us Weasleys for today. I can see Professor McGonagall sitting next to Dumbledore and Snape, though why she'd voluntarily sit next to him, I'll never know. Hermione says that we should try to cooperate with people from other houses, and I do, with Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. I don't see why I have to try and be polite to, and work with, Slytherins. I'm sure that they're all scum like Malfoy, pretentious idiots who aren't worth the time of day, no matter what Hermione says.

Harry and Ginny are nestled together. It looks like those two are finally going to spend a bit more time together. Harry's the only boy I trust around Ginny. After that joke she made about Dean… well, I don't like any of the boys she's gone out with. None of them. Well, I suppose I didn't mind, too much, when she went to the Yule Ball with Neville two years ago, but that wasn't serious. At least, it better not have been!

It looks like funerals are a time to support each other. Hermione couldn't object if I just put an arm around her, could she? She looks like she could use a bit of support. I don't think she's used to funerals.

Hermione hasn't objected, yet, which is a good thing. She can bite your head off when she gets riled. I sort of like having my arm here. It makes me feel protective. Especially when Hermione puts her head on my shoulder like that.

The world is changing so rapidly around us all. It's frightening, how suddenly people are dying. People like Mum and Sirius. I need my friends beside me, to get through this. We need to stand together, or all will be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: It's the end! Thanks goes to my pre-readers Cathy, Loui and Knight Samar, for listening, helping, encouraging, acting as sounding boards, and, in Cathy's case, providing me with a quiet place to write. Special thanks must also go to Kagome and Heather, for pre-betaing, and discovering some egregious mistakes; and to Susan, without whom this story would have an oversupply of commas. This story would not be here today, without all of your help and support.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note - The story title, chapter titles and inspiration for this fic come from Gwen Harwod's poem 'Mother Who Gave Me Life'. Thanks go to: Cathy, Loui and Knight Samar for being sounding boards; Kagome and Heather for pre-betaing; and OHGinnyfan, as always, for betaing and being so supportive.


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